Caught In a Photograph We Made
by etherealmindss
Summary: An adaption of the song "Fall Away" by Lund that stemmed from a dream of mine. Stiles and Malia are my muse of choice to act out the meaning behind this song that's tortured me for a while now. Basically Stiles relocates to New York a couple years after Malia leaves Beacon Hills and sees her for the first time on a rainy, crowded city street. Enjoy the angst.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This little baby was born from** **my reaction to the following songs and how the scene played out in my head with me as Malia in the distant future and Stiles conveying the boy who broke my heart seeing me again for the first time. Morbid, I know. Enjoy!**

Chapter One: Baby, Come and Fall Away With Me

Song Inspiration: " _Fall Away_ " Lund

" _Seventeen_ " Tors

 _[Intro]_  
" _Baby come fall away with me_  
 _Baby you and I were meant to be_  
 _Baby come fall away with me_  
 _Baby you and I were meant to be"_

Moving to New York hadn't been premeditated. Stiles hadn't thought things through like most big moments in his life. There were no red strings, no cork board of plans and clues, no questions, no answers. Leaving on a whim had been more like a simple ghosting of his life, a rebirth and repeat. The last six months passed in a long string of incidents that led up to the moment he packed up his suitcase, wrote his dad and Scott a letter, and disappeared to the nearest train station. He had considered writing to Lydia and letting her know where his head space was in the moment he abandoned everything that he's called home for the past twenty years, but doing that felt permanent as a felt-tipped pen- like if he wrote those words down on paper it would cement his guilt in dried ink. A type of eerie finality he couldn't just wash away. Because while words held weight, goodbyes had their own gravitational force that Stiles felt less and less the further he pushed through the crowd of other people waiting for the train, getting lost in the sounds and void, another nobody. Just another blank-faced, nameless stranger pursuing a Great Perhaps. It was almost exhilarating being in a place where nobody knew his name with only the feeling of the rough duffle bag in his hand and the goosebumps that danced on the back of his neck.

Stiles wrapped his trench coat tighter around his body, falling deeper into the shadows as people walked by him without a care in the world. He pulled out his phone scrolling through his contacts until he reached a familiar name.

[Stiles:] "Thanks for lending me money for the ticket, I'll text you when I get there."

[...]

[Derek:] "Scott is going to kill me for this."

The corner of Stiles' mouth turns up in a smirk.

[Stiles:] "You're Derek Hale… suck it up."

He pocketed the phone and continued down the graveled walk way.

 _[Verse 1]_  
 _"It's been too long since I kissed you_  
 _And baby girl you know I miss you_  
 _No it's no excuse, for my behavior_  
 _Baby girl, I'm sorry that I played ya_  
 _It's been too long since I kissed you_  
 _And baby girl you know I miss you_  
 _No it's no excuse, for my behavior_  
 _Baby girl, I'm sorry that I played ya"_

The train arrived on time and people begin filling the seats. Stiles hands his ticket to the conductor manning the door with a stiff nod of his head and scanned over the empty seats. He finds a quiet spot in the back, a bit stuffy for how much he paid for the ticket, but the dim lighting and muted atmosphere could prove to be worth the money Derek had lent him.

His hair had grown a bit longer. His once boyish features had matured over the past couple of years with a roguish beard covering his jaw, inky black hair falling in his eyes, and his face hardened a bit around the edges. No one really commented on the permanent circles he wore from the lack of sleep that sat on his face like two black holes orbiting his eyes that shined a murky, golden ale.

 _Malia once said his eyes reminded her of her favorite bottle of whiskey._

He ran a cold, clammy hand down his face. Now was not the time to start thinking about her. The hell with it, it was bound to happen eventually.

Thinking about Malia was like opening up Pandora's box. There were a lot of mixed emotions. Even more unsaid words. Things that he should of said, ways he should of done things, things he could of handled better.

Stiles and Malia met each other at a very strange time in their lives. In some ways, he was so afraid of losing her- _someone that he loved_ , that he refused to love anything. He pushed her so far away until he could hold her at arms length, dipping his toe in the water but never quite jumping head-first into the relationship the way he wanted to. And that's kind of the gray area Stiles had been in ever since.

Malia left two years ago. Maybe he was piggy-backing off of her idea. Last the pack had heard she was pursuing a lavish lifestyle in France thanks to the money Peter pushed on her to make up for being a dead-beat father and an overall shitty human-being. Last time she'd sent a postcard she'd attached a smiling Polaroid photograph with none other than Isaac Lahey. Who knew those two would hit it off, let alone travel around France together. Apparently their pretty good friends now. At first, Stiles wasn't sure how he felt about it but had enough sense at the time not to call Malia out on it. As much as he would of loved to goad her into returning to Beacon Hills for a few days, the last thing he wanted to do was anger the werecoyote. And at the time, Stiles was dating Lydia. And honestly, he was probably the last person who got an opinion on how and with who Malia chose to live her life. Scott had been pretty upset when she'd taken off, he'd grown a soft spot for her over the course of senior year. Eventually he met someone, though. A nice human girl whom he'd had a class with back at UC Davis.

In the case of Malia, Stiles was glad she got out. She was too big of a person for Beacon Hills. That place fit her like a shirt that just didn't quite hold true to size. At first she seemed content to settle down in the sleepy town, attend community college, and in that time figure out what the hell she wanted to do with her life. But somewhere along the way, things changed. One night she skipped town like a ghost in the night, not an uttered word left behind. He would say that it hurt, but everything about her hurt. Missing the feral girl with dark-bright eyes, a stubborn heart, and an enchanting smile _hurt like hell_.

" _You're the only one that makes my heart beat_  
 _You're the only reason that I still breathe_  
 _Fall away I feel it, its so soothing_  
 _The look in your eyes is so moving_  
 _You're the only one that makes my heart beat_  
 _You're the only reason that I still breathe_  
 _Fall away I feel it, its so soothing_  
 _The look in your eyes is so moving"_

A slip of a girl with thick-rimmed glasses, fringe bangs and a black beret takes a seat next to him, her coat rustling nosily as she sits. He bites back the urge to groan in annoyance, his hopes of making it through this train ride under the radar thwarted by some girl who looks like she stepped right out of _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_. Stiles can feel her curious eyes on him, but when he doesn't meet her gaze or even offer up a hello, she turns away with a scowl.

The first couple of hours into the ride were pretty uneventful. Stiles was, however, an observant person and learned a thing or two about some of his fellow passengers, soon to be amateur New Yorkers. The man in aisle one is having an affair. He can tell by the way he writes gingerly on the paper he's holding, a certain level of care and precision he takes with each cursive loop. But looking down at the wedding band on his ring finger, he frowns. The woman a few seats up and across from him has a baby on the way. She's somewhat of an eccentric women, what with the way she clutches her leather jacket like a blanket and places a pair of funky, over-sized earphones over her belly. I bet that bump is going to grow up to be one cool kid. The girl next to him is afraid of trains. It's kind of obvious by her flighty eyes, the tremor in her hands, and the way her chin quivers every time the engine rattles. The less asshole-ish part of him almost comforts her, but inevitably the overbearing asshole portion of his personality takes the reigns. Stiles has never really been a _people person_.

"Are you always this moody, or is it just nerves?" Girl next to me utters under her breath, her back straight as a board as she continues to analyze the back of the seat in front of her.

Stiles' eyes never waver from his own back-seated view, "It's kind of a coin toss, it could go either way." He offers shortly, bringing his eyes out to the morbid gray of the sky and the sepia tracks that carry them further away from anything remotely resembling home.

She chuckles, but doesn't say anything. A few more minutes of silence go by and Stiles almost lets himself fall asleep when her silvery tone leaks into his ears once again, "My name's Melanie, by the way."

"Charmed, I'm sure." He say with a snort before actually turning to face her, "I'm not trying to be a prick, at least not anymore than usual, but I'm kind of having a mental break down over leaving home and rude and aloof is my only defense mechanism to rectify that. So _Melanie,_ you're probably a really nice girl but I'm really not someone you want to make friends with." He states matter-of-fact, turning his head of disheveled dark hair away from her expression of barely concealed shock, going back to looking out the window.

Melanie lets out a snide laugh, "Gee, I didn't know being male and bitter constitutes being a dick." Her jade eyes assess him with a crinkle of her nose, "Maybe that's why you came on this train alone."

Stiles barks out a laugh, "What, you trying to psychoanalyze me now? Is that what you like to do for fun, befriend broken things and try to figure them out. Well my shit reeks of complicated and there's nothing to dig deeper for. This is me, rude and abrasive. What you see is what you get."

Melanie glares at him unabashed from her seat, "Who hurt you, _Bruce Wayne_?"

Her insult gives him pause. Scott was always Batman while he was always stuck being Robin. And even now, he's still not Batman, just the lukewarm, watered down version of him. A cope out, a disguise, demoted to a goddamn _Bruce Wayne_. Nobody likes a Bruce Wayne.

His sordid black eyes bleed into hers with a slight dip in his gruff voice, "How much- time do you have?"

At that crack in his composure, her steely eyes soften, "I've got time." She looks at her watch with a creeping smile starting at the corner of her lips, "Actually, I've got exactly sixty-one more hours of sharing this small space with you so we might as well attempt to get along. And I know that may be hard for you since apparently you're some hard-ass with a whole diary full of issues, but I'm still a person." Her bottom lip falls hostage between her teeth, "And I'm the only person here willing to listen. So play nice and regale my wandering mind with some back story on what built the foundations of the elusive man that sits next to me."

Stiles scratches the back of his neck, "I'm not that interesting."

She smirks, "And I'm not that interest _ed_. But beggars can't be choosers. How about you start with your name."

A witty retort sits on the tip of his tongue, but Stiles chooses to rise above the urge to push away this stranger's resilience and incessant probing. Not that he'd ever admit it, but it was kind of nice to have someone ask him a question about himself without already actually knowing the answer.

He holds back an eye roll, "Stiles."

She shakes her head with her lose navy blue curls falling around her face, "It really is like pulling teeth with you, huh?"

Stiles braces his hands on his knees and clear his throat, "You should feel lucky, most people haven't even made it this far in the conversation."

She shifts her weight to face him, "I'm touched."

A ghost of a smile slants across his face, "Anyone ever tell you that you're really persistent?"

Her own smile forms, "Only every guy I've had the misfortune of dating."

Stiles stifles a laugh behind the camouflage of a cough, "You don't seem like the type to put up with that."

Melanie winks at him through her glasses, "Right now you don't seem like _that much_ of an asshole, Stiles." She pushes her glasses further up the bridge of her nose, "I think we're making progress."

" _It's progress."_

The similar collection of words floats through his mind. A certain ill-tempered, mildly devastating, doe-eyed girl creeps back out from the recesses of his thoughts.

" _Just looking at you is so moving_  
 _And bring it back down how you do it_  
 _Just looking at you is so moving_  
 _And bring it back down how you do it"_

Stiles shakes himself from his stupor with a charming smile, "Give me time, I'll get there."

They both laugh under their breaths.

 _61 Hours Later…_

Melanie and Stiles ended up hitting it off with a jab here and there and maybe even some mild swearing. After spending a little more than two whole days together on the claustrophobia-inducing train, the pair decided that with their combined wits, maybe they could actually survive in New York. In the spontaneous and more begrudged agreement on Stiles' part, the two decided to be flat mates and would start apartment hunting once they stepped off the train. They'd narrowed their choices down to a couple of options back on the train, but now it was all about compromising and if Stiles' past relationships said anything about himself, he was never very good at that.

The streets were bustling with frantic people on their cellphones, juggling shopping bags, and bypassing obnoxious street vendors that set up camp in every inch of the city. You can't pass a single corner without someone shouting at you to buy a hot dog.

Stiles is pretty weak when it comes to hot dogs, he'll probably have to look into a gym membership as well. Tossing a couple back easily, he wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand and disposes of the trash in the nearest garbage can. New York is already notorious for having a littering problem, his first impression would not begin by conforming to the masses.

He'd been in contact with a private investigation agency over the last year or so, finally landing an online interview and an eventual position that helped coax him into making the big move and leaving his old life behind. Melanie was meeting up with an old friend of hers, before parting ways they exchanged numbers. With a few hours to kill, Stiles decided to experience the city and visit all the standard monuments and cultivating museums filled with rich history and tragedy. The 9/11 exhibit was probably the most awe-striking. As morbid as it was, it definitely made him feel a sense of loss he hadn't thought he would. His dad had once spoken of a distant relative that lost their life when the twin towers went down, but Stiles had never really given it much thought until now. He made it his mission to search through every name until he stumbled upon a lone Stilinski surname.

He traced the engraving with his index finger, the shallow indention feeling foreign against his skin. When he'd had his fill he exited the monument, but not before offering a tissue from his pocket to a little old woman who wept over her late husband's name.

The smell of petrichor perfumes the air with a salty musk before the first falls of rain begin to pour, hitting the asphalt and droning on in a drum-like background noise. Drenched, dark hair sticks to Stiles' forehead and beads of water slide down his spine, causing him to shiver. He looks down at his duffle bag in search of an umbrella when a familiar flash of bronze-brown hair catches his eye. Bent over his knees in the middle of a crowded street, Stiles narrows his eyes through the stream of water coating his lashes and spots a speck of a forest green sweater and long legs dressed in high-waist jeans melting into the blend of people, unnoticed by all but him.

Her hair is half up in a strategically messy bun, the rest of her chocolate waves cascading around her sun-kissed shoulders with a small, intricate braid falling behind her pierced ear. Even from their distance, Stiles can make out her glossy brown eyes and sultry, bee-stung lips.

He's not sure if he's awake or dreaming, but Malia Tate is gliding towards him and every single nerve in his body freezes. It's as if she's moving in slow-motion, each step closer still feeling like a giant step back.

" _That moment, when you kiss someone and everything around you becomes hazy and the only thing in focus is you and this person and you realize that that person is the only person that you're supposed to kiss for the rest of your life_."

I loved her and she had loved me, but somewhere along the way we lost each other.

( _Beginning of second song- "Seventeen" Tors)_

" _We fell in love when we were young. Oh what a thing we've done, So many things we didn't know. Driving just to see how far we go. Life passes by, like a whisper. We lost our sights, too many times."_

Stiles catch her eyes for a fraction of a second and for a moment, everything is technicolor. Seeing her right now, it's almost like seeing her for the first time, yet so startlingly different. She's not guarded and weary like the girl she was who came into the world naked on the floor of the woods seventeen years too late. She smiles blindingly like she's hiding the sun behind her teeth and those two years that she's been gone feels like a life time ago.

She's running now, towards him. She sees him. She's excited to see him.

She gets closer and Stiles mentally prepare himself; tries to school his expression, pulling words to form sentences in order to tell her how much he's missed her, trying _so damn hard_ not to give away just how much he's thought about her over the years.

She's here in arms reach and Stiles can almost touch her, but her shoulder brushes his so faintly as she passes him up without so much of a thought registering at all, _tortuously_ light, as if she moved right through him. One moment she's next to me and the next she's already slipped through his fingers, her eyes never meeting his as they focus on something behind him. Just as her body passes, Stiles eyes follow her as his own body turns on instinct like a magnet to her magnet, buzzing at the energy that still exists there. Her arms fly around a man he doesn't recognize a few feet behind him near the phone booth. She clings to him fiercely with her head buried in his chest.

Stiles watches her absently, sadly, as rain falls mockingly over his head. A contented laugh slips from between her lips and her eyes shine so bright even in the bleak, grey morning on these drenched, city streets. And at the moment, he felt like he was dying inside.

As though feeling his eyes boring into her back whether from her senses or just the sheer blatant-force of his stare, Malia turns her gorgeous coyote eyes on him and her mouth forms a little 'o' as her eyes widen in disbelief.

And when Stiles sees her looking back at him with those timeless eyes that take him back to another time and place, every unsaid thing between them hangs in the air waiting to drop, every noise of the city falling at their feet. And in that quiet moment you live in right before you know your world is going to fall apart, Malia whispered-

"Hello, Stiles."

" _Caught in a photograph we made, we were seventeen. Watching the girls as they fade. In all the while the faces stay the same and yet they never seem so strange to me, yeah. How do you say we just run away, and do it again?_ "

 **Author's Note: Honestly not really sure what I have planned for this. It can remain a one-shot or I can expand on it, let me know. However if I do continue it further, please don't expect frequent updates. My muse is all over the place, flip flopping between Stalia and Scalia and I'm working on finishing other stories. But if this one catches some steam, I'll try to be diligent with my updating. Your reviews dictate where this goes so tell me what you want and what you liked or didn't like. Thanks friends!**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: She's Some Kind of Wonderful

Song Inspiration: " _Home_ " Daughter

" _'Cause I don't stand a chance in these four walls. And he don't recognize me anymore. Burned out flames should never re-ignite. But I thought you might…_ "

Malia took cautious steps towards him, her expression masked and dark brown eyes guarded, "How did you find me, Stiles?"

The rain fell softer than the way she said his name.

Stiles' gaze thirsts for any part of her he can find, memorizing the new addition of freckles that splatter her nose, her once short nails now a bit longer, the way her hair brushes her collarbones. No matter how many pictures they had together, something about this was different, a mental influx of the girl who liked to disappear without a word that stands before him different than how she left him. No one ever takes a photograph of something they want to forget.

She looks at him like she doesn't even recognize him, like even if she could- she wouldn't want to.

Stiles wets his lips and tugs on the patches of hair littering his jaw, "Just luck, I guess. The last postcard you sent was from France, so we all just assumed that's where you ended up. You always wanted to go there…" He says breathlessly, searching her eyes, "I actually just moved here, today." He laughs nervously and points to the train station around the bend of the corner they're standing on, "I needed to get the hell out of California. Beacon Hills just got too- small, I suppose."

What he meant to say was lonely.

"Scott and Lydia miss you, a lot."

What he was trying to say was that he missed her, _a lot_.

In saying this, he tries to keep the hurt masked as accusation out of his voice. She had disappeared one night, ghosted them all, pulled a gone girl without any indication that she was unhappy.

Or maybe we- _he_ , didn't pay enough attention to her at the time. Being self-absorbed, or _Lydia-absorbed_ , is a reckless thing.

A small smile slips across her face as she wraps the oversized sleeves of her green sweater tighter around herself, "I miss them, too." She says softly, earnestly. Her fingers are clenched into fists at her sides, her fingers flexing until they unravel shakily under his notice. When she catches on to his eyes focused on her hands she lets out a breath and unfurls them entirely until they lay smooth across her jean-clad thighs.

But when she looks back up at him her eyes are cooler than before, the deep amber seemingly crystalized, "But I don't regret leaving. I couldn't stay there anymore. After Scott and I almost died in Gerard's armory a lot of things came into perspective. I told Scott with what could of been my dying breath that there was still so much I wanted to do. I was eighteen at the time, I hadn't been anywhere." She wipes a non-existent eyelash off her cheek, "I think Scott understood that. Lydia, too."

She looks behind her at the man she had embraced and with an encouraging smile, reaching out for him to come forward. His hand rests on the small of her back and she lets him.

In one moment, Stiles was feeling everything and nothing.

"Stiles, this is Lyric. Lyric, this is Stiles," She pauses for a moment as her bottomless brown eyes find his again wearily, "A friend from back home."

Stiles nods mutely and shakes his hand, firm enough to leave an impression. Lyric's light green eyes meet his tired, low-lidded scrutiny and assess him, a million questions swimming behind them before transferring his gaze to Malia, looking on her with adoration. His gaze finds Stiles again over Malia's shoulder, an evident apprehension as he rubs small circles on her hip with his thumb, probably more for his own comfort than hers.

Stiles wonder if he _knows_ ; If he's seen the blue-eyed animal that lives in the tatters of her skin until she calls it forward. If he's witnessed her in the most intimate ways that he can ever imagine knowing her. If he's experienced her truly alive; running through the hooded greenery of the shadowed treetops of the woods, the wind racing through her fur and fireflies dancing around her. The tiny spaces of the trees used to make him claustrophobic but Stiles liked when she would show him things that made her happy, a little more at ease. Different eyes see different things.

Stiles had loved her with constraint until he fell apart trying to understand her.

He regarded her attentively, "How did you two meet?"

Hard-browed with her chin jutted out she leans in closer to Lyric, "Isaac and I met him backpacking through Europe. We travelled here about a year ago and decided we liked it. Lyric lives around here in the city but Isaac and I settled for a place in the Bronx. It's a little grittier, messier, I like it. I can make our little studio apartment my own, Isaac doesn't seem to mind much as long as there's a coat rack for him to hand his scarves."

Before he can hone it in, Stiles chuckles somberly, "A year, huh? That's a damn long time to go without talking to any of us."

Her chiseled gaze holds him in place and his throat closes up under the force behind it, "I was preoccupied; living my own life, making my own choices." She deadpans before continuing her tongue-lashing, "And I don't owe anyone an explanation for what I choose to do. I still text Scott every couple of weeks. Lydia and I usually talk on the phone at least every other week. Hell, even Peter calls occasionally. They reached out and I reciprocated." She lets out an air of frustration, " _Where were you, Stiles_?"

Stiles gulps audibly and wrings his hands together back and forth. She always had a way of putting him in his place.

Where had he been? _Hiding_.

"I didn't think you'd want to talk to me."

Her chin quivers faintly completely ignoring what he said, "Why are you here, Stiles?"

He clutches his trench coat tighter to his body, dodging the disgruntled businessmen shoving past him. He looks at her again, "I needed a change. New York seemed like the right place to go." He takes another timid step towards her, "I see the nomadic lifestyle must of got boring since you settled down around here. What made you stay?"

"I don't know, it has it's charms, I guess."

"No, you saw something here, didn't you." Stiles smiles crookedly, "Something drew you to this place. You're observant, diligent with where you surround yourself. I know it can't be just it's charms."

She chuckles, "The hot dogs here are pretty good, I suppose."

He laughs along with her, "You're damn right they are."

This time her smile reaches her eyes.

Lyric decides to intercept the conversation, as if Stiles had any collection of fucks to give about whatever he had to say. "There's something about the city that's so… captivating. I'm writing a book right now and this place is a great backdrop of inspiration. I would say I write about New York but New York- writes me."

Pretentious ass.

Stiles tries and fails to cover his laugh. The guy reeks of privilege; the kind that means imported sophistication and only the finest, domestic cigarettes.

"That's deep, man." Stiles mocks in that sarcastic way of saying something that sounds almost convincing but heavily implies a sardonic undertone. Lyric smirks at the appraisal, but Malia narrows her eyes knowingly, understanding his wits and mannerisms well enough to recognize he was actually making fun of the prick.

"We have tickets to this thing," She begins, "We should probably get going before we're late."

An unconscious part of him reaches out and catches her wrist in a gentle hold, one that she could of released herself from if she wanted to.

"Maybe we can meet up for coffee soon." He suggests lightly hoping she won't flat out reject him, "I'd really like to see you again, hopefully sooner than a year from now." He smirks and her eyes dance with mischief, "Only if you want to." He tacks on the end as an afterthought.

Malia crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him blankly before her body calms and something in her mood shifts, "You still have the same number, right?"

Stiles can barely keep the elation off his face, "You know I'm stuck in my ways, I don't change that much."

She smirks at that with eyes that appraise him through her lashes, "Something tells me that's not entirely true." She says vaguely before turning on her heel with Lyric's arm wrapped around her, "I'll call you." She yells over her shoulder as her voice gets lost in the crowd.

"Tell Isaac I said hey, I guess." He shouts over the distance.

She turns back and smiles, "Tell him yourself, you've got his number. Use it." She calls out one last time, the speck of her green sweater swallowed up by the sea of locals.

Stiles stood there a few moments longer, the rain long forgotten even as it seeps through his clothes. He stares down the street, the fleeting image of Malia becoming smaller and smaller as she disappears once again. He hopes she'll call; he _really_ hopes she'll call.

" _Take me, take me, home, home._

 _Take me, take me, home, home._ "


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: She's Not Your Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Song Inspiration: " _Plastic_ " Moses Sumney

It took three days for Malia to call.

He remembers being on edge waiting since the day she walked away.

 _Stiles' phone buzzes noisily on the nightstand by the bed while he's in the shower. The water drownes out the noise, Stiles only hearing the the tail end of the ringtone 'Pretty Girl' by Clairo, the same song he'd had saved under Malia's contact information for years. He fumbles out of the shower, limbs tripping over each other, shampoo dripping from his hair and into his eyes, and wet foot prints leaving puddles on the wood floor._

 _Stiles makes it to the door of his bedroom. Right as he's about to pick up the phone he trips, arms flailing around him spastically to catch his fall, but it's too late. He lands flat on his ass._

" _Shit" He grumbles under his breath, the pain in his side making him hiss. He reaches up to grab the discarded cellphone, but a porcelain hand beats him to it._

 _Melanie answers the phone with a smirk, "Melanie, speaking."_

 _Stiles' eyes bug out of their sockets and he shakes his head at her vehemently, water spraying the floor, "Wait no stop, it's Mal-"_

" _Malia, hey girl. Yeah, Stiles is a little preoccupied, he just busted his ass on the floor running out of the shower to answer your call."_

 _Stiles smacks his forehead, "Smooth, Mel." He snaps in irritation, reaching his hand out calmly for her to hand it over._

 _Her eyes narrow, a flash of mischief dancing in their jade depths. "I've heard great things about you, Malia. Hopefully if Stiles doesn't royally screw things up with you we can meet and exchange horror stories about him. He's kind of a jerk," She says playfully into the receiver while sticking her tongue out at him, "But I'm sure he'll be on his best behavior around you. Go easy on him, he's not that bad." She says with a soft smile before saying goodbye and handing the phone over to him._

" _You're welcome." She grins._

 _He rolls my eyes, "Watch your back, Clementine Kruczynski." He chuckles under his breath._

 _She smirks, "Don't threaten me with a good time, Stilinski."_

 _He clutches the phone close to his ear and waits until Melanie left the room, "Malia,"_

" _Stiles," She murmurs quietly in that way that brings him back a few years, to a time when things were different. When they were different people. When things were clearer._

" _It took you three days to call," He chuckles nervously, his grip on the phone sliding between his sweaty palm, "I'm glad you did, though. I really wasn't sure if you were going to."_

" _I wasn't sure if I was going to either." She says casually, "Melanie seems nice."_

 _He snorts, "She can be. I'm kind of getting used to the whole roommate thing."_

 _She giggles, "You were never much of a people person. I don't know how you and Scott got along so well, you guys have clashing personalities. He's soft like feathers and you're more like," She pauses to think, "Brimstone." He can hear the smirk in her voice._

" _Well I don't like to brag but I happen to be a good judge of character." He jokes lamely but she laughs anyways causing his smile to grow embarrassingly wide. "I guess my eye for good people led me to you, as well."_

 _Her silence carries deafeningly through the phone. What felt like hours could of been merely minutes by the static of her quietness that seemed to stretch on longer than he was able to hold his breath. Finally she clears her throat and murmurs into the phone, soft-spoken as if passing on a secret, "I considered vanishing again; changing my number, picking up my things, leaving this city behind. I had a small duffle full of clothes packed a few hours after we parted the other day. Isaac would of understood, Lyric too." She pauses for a brief moment, clearing her throat again but harder this time, "You broke me, Stiles. The moment after I cut myself loose from you I barely felt like a person. It was like losing a limb."_

 _He blows out the breath he'd been holding and takes a seat on his bed. He knew he couldn't avoid this conversation forever with oddly-timed humor, bad one-liners and his heart in his throat. Malia was never familiar with subtly and he welcomed her candor like a breath of fresh air most of the time. Too many people are afraid to face what hurts them, but Malia doesn't fear anything. That's a quality Stiles had always envied about her._

 _He's shoved the words he wanted to say to her for years so far down his throat that he could now feel himself choking on them, the filter between his mind and mouth a one-way stream with a rocky bottom. If there's one thing he's learned over his twenty years, it's that words must have actions, otherwise their transparent- paper thin, meaningless until given meaning._

 _Stiles flops back lazily on his bed, staring at a small stain on the off-white ceiling as the first tear escaped his eye, "I didn't mean to hurt you." He says lowly, his breathing dragging out as though each syllable were the drag of a razor blade in his throat. The words left his mouth like poison falling down his lips. He hated how because of him, this was the first conversation he would be having with her after all these years. He's imagined so many times how this would go; what words he's say, how she'd respond, if she'd respond. The only way to know was to stop stalling and get on with it. He had to talk to her; spell everything out. She gifted him her time, he could at least give her honesty back._

 _Dragging his hands over his eyes he cradles the phone closer to his ear until it presses hard against his cheek, "I think too much. I feel too much. I hold onto things that aren't good for me… I guess that explains why you're the one thing I chose to let go of. It's still not an excuse, though."_

" _Stiles, we can't-"_

" _I know." He deadpans, tears falling freely now as they slide down his cheeks and onto his bed spread, "I know we can't just go back to the way things were like nothing happened. It would be an insult to you to even suggest something like that, so I won't." He croaks out through the knot in his chest, "I- I just have to believe that if you'll meet me somewhere and continue having this conversation with me, we can figure the rest out, get back to friends… acquaintances, or something in between. I just- miss having you as a friend." He wets his lips to moisten them, "And I miss being your friend. I miss knowing you more than anything."_

 _He can hear her breathing through the phone but she doesn't respond right away. This gives him a chance to continue his nervous rambling._

" _I'll be at White Rhino coffee house at 8:00. It's in the Bronx so you wouldn't even have to go too far out of your way. If you don't show up I'll understand, it's your choice." He scratches his beard anxiously, "That's the least I owe you, the choice to decide for yourself if you want to see me again."_

" _Okay." She sighs._

 _Stiles can feel his heart hammering in his chest, "Okay." He pulls at his hair. Just before she's about to hang up he blurts out, "And Malia, I'm sorry if it seemed like I was trying to fix you before. I was just trying to help."_

 _She sighs, "I don't want people to fix me, only I can do that. I just want people to stop breaking me." The sounds of her nails drumming against a hard surface fills the gap of silence she left hanging there while she thinks about what she wants to say next, "But with that being said, I used you as a crutch at first. I tried to make a home in you. You took care of me when I needed you. It's your nature, Stiles. Always looking out for everyone but yourself."_

" _I'll always look out for you, Malia."_

" _I know."_

 _The line goes dead._

* * *

Malia feels warm hands on her back, slow fingers absently stroking the curve of her spine as she lays in bed on her side. Malia can feel Lyric's flushed skin bleeding into her back, she smiles faintly at the contentedness he provides her. He's safe, reliable, and most of all in love with her. She doesn't have to worry about him leaving.

She slides out of bed, a pool of dread in her stomach. The clock was nearing 7:30 and her mind still wasn't made up. Stiles would be waiting for her but the thought of seeing him again felt like cutting herself open, the opportunity for blood to puddle at her feet. Her battered heart had came back from war stronger than ever, but Stiles is dangerous. His hazelnut eyes were her weakest point.

She felt seventeen again. Crazy how one person can do that to you.

She can hear Isaac in the kitchen fixing himself breakfast. He said it sounds better at night than the mornings. If she had to guess, it was most likely an english muffin, a pot of black coffee, and two strips of bacon cooked extra crispy. The smells waft to her nose and her stomach growls in hunger. She wanders barefoot, following the smells until she comes upon a carefree Isaac moving around the kitchen with ease, his blue eyes sparkling and ruby red lips mouthing the words to _Honey_ by Kehlani. His golden curls fall in his eyes as he starts to get into it, using a whisk as a microphone. He hasn't noticed her presence yet.

She covers her mouth with her hand to mask her giggles. Leaning against the doorframe, she watches him be happy in the simplest form of the word.

"I ran into Stiles the other day."

He straightens up at her voice turning to look at her hiding in the shadows. His sky blue eyes assess her with apprehension, "Stilinski?"

She rolls her eyes and huffs, "What other Stiles do you know?"

He nods, "Now that you mention it, the name is kind of ridiculous." He snarks, looking at her a little longer, holding her gaze steady. "I hope you told that wanker to stick it where the sun doesn't shine."

Oh yeah, Isaac had picked up some English slang while we've been travelling. The cuss words are probably his favorite part of the language. He would say that there's nothing better than finding more colorful, creative ways to insult someone. Begrudgingly, she has to agree. Lyric had been the butt of those jokes for a while until Isaac finally warmed up to him a little. They still aren't exactly besties.

Malia's arms come to overlap across her chest, "He wants me to meet him for coffee. Drug up the past, I guess. I just don't know if I'm ready, if I ever will be."

He has his back facing her, "Then don't go."

Her eyes flicker to him before looking back down at her feet, "I can't run from this forever."

"Like hell, you can't."

"Isaac…" She sighs, "You're my best friend. I don't know when that happened but I trust you more than a lot of people. I need you to tell me if I'm making a mistake."

He finally looks at her, "Stiles is either the best thing for you or the worst. Only you can figure out which one that is."

She hides her face, "It's not like that. I don't- I don't feel like _that_ for him anymore. I've got Lyric."

Isaac has the audacity to laugh, "The first time you opened up to me, you nearly clawed my eyes out before you actually let me comfort you. You cried in my arms and then after that we never talked about it. You wouldn't let yourself go there again." He lowers his voice, his eyes shifting to the door I had come out of where a sleeping Lyric lays, "That guy in there loves you, that much is obvious. But you, you're harder to read. You're not an open book like the rest of us. You like Lyric, but Stiles is something completely different and you know it. You're fooling yourself if you think it's not, Malia."

She shrugs a little, "It's hard to know when you love someone when you've never really seen what love looks like."

Isaac holds her gaze until a small smile cracks his stoney exterior, "Go find out."

* * *

Stiles stands in the short line at White Rhino, his hands in his coat pockets to keep from fidgeting as he resists looking at the entrance every few minutes to see if she comes walking through the door.

He's next in line and steps up. Mind in a haze for most of the wait, he has no idea what he wants to order. He contemplates ordering something for Malia in case she shows but he figures she wouldn't like that. Headstrong and charmingly stubborn are characteristics he doubts she's lost over the years. The other reason he refrained from getting her anything was because he realized he doesn't know what she likes anymore.

She was always a hot chocolate and pumpkin bread kind of girl, usually sticking to the basics. Maybe she's a latte girl now. Maybe she liked banana bread. Maybe she's taken up an appreciation for tea. There's so much he doesn't know.

Pushing his dark hair out of his eyes he looks down at the name tag of the barista, _PJ_.

"Let me guess, your favorite sandwich is pb&j." Stiles says lamely, finally meeting his eyes. PJ has warm mocha skin, kind brown eyes hiding behind his glasses, and a friendly smile.

"As long as it's vegan-friendly and organic, I'll eat anything." He laughs politely, looking at him expectantly but patiently.

Stiles scans the menu overhanging the wooden counter, "Yeah man, I'll just have a tall coffee, black, with two sugars and a slice of pumpkin bread, please."

"Coming right up, my dude." PJ calls out, moving behind the coffee machines to start on his order. Stiles moves down the counter to get out of the way of the other patrons. He takes a seat a cozy table near a piano that sits off in the corner. It's private and dimly lit, two of his favorite things.

He looks at his watch and lets out a sigh, it's 8:07, she's not coming.

In the gentle hum of the coffee house, the doorbell chimes. PJ comes to set down his drink and pumpkin bread as he looks up. Malia walks through the door in a cream turtleneck sweater and high-waist jeans, her signature combat boots completing her look. Stiles mouth drops open.

He's looking at her, and she is _so_ beautiful.

PJ eyes him and then to where he's looking and puts a hand on his shoulder, "Lost love?"

Stiles doesn't drop his eyes from the door, "Something like that."

"You fucked up, didn't you, son?"

Stiles chuckles, scratching the back of his neck, "You have no idea." He mutters thickly, still looking at her. He smiles crookedly, "But I'm going to win her heart again."

PJ gives him a look that's less than confident, "I guess we've all got to have some kind of dream." He says half-joking, giving his shoulder a squeeze, "I'm rooting for you, man."

Stiles chuckles, "Thanks, I'm going to need it."

PJ smirks in his direction as he walks away, "Who you telling? She's gorgeous. A little out of your league. But I've always had a soft spot for the underdogs." He turns back and whispers loud enough for him to hear, "Stand up and pull her chair out for her, idiot."

Stiles jumps, scrambling out of his seat just as Malia meets his eyes. He gives her a lame wave and gestures for her to come over. She moves with caution, her flighty eyes moving around the coffee house as if the walls are closing in on her. Stiles meets her half way, aware of PJ's eyes on them. He's probably getting a kick out of this.

"Hey Mal," He starts, keeping eyes focused on hers, "I'm glad you came."

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and pulls her denim jacket tighter around her, "It was now or never."

He swears he hears a "Ow burn" from behind the counter.

Pulling out the chair for her, he gestures for her to sit and she eyes him wearily but takes a seat nonetheless.

They're face to face and Stiles can see every inch of her. Every freckle. Every eyelash. Every shadow of emotion.

He inches his hand a little closer to his pumpkin bread, sliding it towards her as a peace offering.

Malia's eyes light up and she takes a piece of the moist bread, moaning when it touches her tongue. Stiles watches her, fascinated. Everything she does is so uniquely her. He misses just seeing her in her element.

She notices him looking at her and shoots him a glare, devouring the rest of the pumpkin bread. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and props her elbow up on the table with her head tilted that's supported by the palm of her hand, "Well you got me here, give me a reason to stay."

Stiles grins, her aloofness doing little to deter his resolve. He came here for a purpose, and he intends to see it through.

He crosses his arms on the table, "You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to be. Nothing I could of said would of convinced you to come if you made up your mind you weren't going to." He reaches into his satchel and hands her a small box of letters. "There's 365 of them in there. One for each day I wrote to you but didn't have the guts to mail them. They're yours now. Burn them, read them, that's your choice. I just thought you should have them."

Her mouth falls open and her brown eyes stun him into silence, "What exactly are you after here, Stiles. What do you hope to get out of this?"

He swallows the lump in his throat and pauses a beat, "Nothing at all." He supplies, "Actually that's not completely true. I'm hoping after we're done here I'll get a small inclination of whether or not I can see you again." He cups his mug between his veiny hands, "How am I doing so far?"

"Mediocre effort." She shrugs with a coy smile.

"I can do better."

"You have an hour." She says defensively, her eyes guarded and posture closed off.

His eyes soften at the slight upward curl of her lips that she can't seem to hide, "I can work with that."

 **Author's Note: Please leave some comments and let me know if the characterization is okay, I'm a little rusty on Stalia. Thanks guys.**


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